I’m one of those people who sets their bedside clock fast. At first, it was ten minutes. I thought that I’d be able to trick myself into being ahead of the game in the mornings. While a morning person, I am not… well, I’m not a victim of amnesia, either. I did not appreciate my trickery come morning. I snoozed, I did the math, and do you think that ONCE I popped out of bed, convinced that the time blinking on my clock was the actual time honored in society? Not freaking once, folks. So, I tried to outsmart myself again. I set the time to seven minutes ahead, because at least seven is slighly more difficult a figure to subtract, especially in the wee morning hours. That didn’t exactly work, either. Then I recruited Chris to take control of the clock, setting it to whatever time he pleased. When the alarm went off the next morning, I just grabbed my cell phone, the true teller of time. And then I slapped the snooze. Twice. My bedside clock is currently still fast, but I know the precise increment to deduct. This trick has not made me more punctual, or more of a morning person. At best, it’s just given me more math problems to do in a day. Who am I kidding, I don’t even look at that stupid thing, I just check my phone.

Having not learned my lesson, I tried to trick myself again, but this time, with coffee. Dude, Arabica beans and I have a serious love/hate thing going on. I am a zombie without them, but if I have one cup, I look like I tried applying my makeup on a roller coaster. In the dark. With my toes. So, clever little me decides to grind my own blend at the grocery store, mixing half Breakfast Blend with decaf. WHO DO I THINK I’M KIDDING? I just had two cups this morning, to spite myself for trying to pull a fast one on me. This time, the intense jitters were accompanied by a sense of pride (for outsmarting myself) and defeat (for outsmarting myself.)

So, here I am, getting all introspective over clocks and caffeine. To those of you who think I’m silly, I applaud you for having a life. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Nik is having an intense philospohical debate (with herself!) over her overindulgent id. It’s gone so far that she’s resorted to referring to herself in third person and is making puns like “over id-dulgent”.

The id comprises the unorganised part of the personality structure that contains the basic drives. The id acts according to the “pleasure principle“, seeking to avoid pain or unpleasure aroused by increases in instinctual tension.The id is unconscious by definition.

In the spirit of full disclosure, totally ripped that off Wikipedia, for the record. Just sayin’. My point is, though, that sometimes, my life feels like an ongoing battle of Me vs. Me. I’m the one pushing me forward, I am the one holding me back. Holy hell, it’s exhausting. At least I know exactly how long I can snooze in the morning, and to have an extra cup of coffee to wake me up.

“You know what, Mom?” Asked my six year old philosopher today, “People always say that you don’t want to spoil a surprise. You know what else you could say? Don’t boil the surprise. Because then it would get all gross and pop out everywhere and be ruined, and that’s just the same as it being spoiled.”

No, actually, I think it’s better.

And hence, a new phrase was coined in our household.

*Word of caution!!! If you ever feel compelled to include an image of boiling water, do not do a google images search for “boil”. DO NOT! I’m so grossed out that I had to close the window- between dry heaves, mind you- and I’m far too scarred to try again. So imagine, if you will, a nice image of boiling water here. Like the one I’m about to put on the stove to use to scald my retinas with.*

You have to read that title while channeling the musical stylings of Bad Company, and their hit, “Feel Like Making Love”. Go crazy on the chorus, please. Air guitar: a must.

It’s been a while since I’ve posted, and I didn’t notice the absence until I was sitting in front of the computer tonight, reading other people’s blogs, and in the stillness and anticipation of a particularly long page-load, I felt something. A little twinge. A swirling of words bubbling below the surface, humming together, “Type us!” until I noticed and could identify what that peculiar feeling was. I stole a suspicious sideways glance at my Captain and Coke as the sensation registered. It was the urge to write, and it felt amazing. As I filled the address bar with my blog’s homepage, I- quite literally- burst out in song. “I feel like making blog! [headbang] Blog! [headbang] Feel like maaaaking bloooog toooooooo you!” And then all those little words I had been stifling suddenly broke out in applause, their release imminent.

And then I realized I had no material. Hence, a post about posting, probably one of the most boring entries to have to read. So I apologize to you, dear reader (yes, in the singular) and although I am a bit embarrassed, I have to admit that this is more for me than for you. Selfish, yes. But at least I’m honest?

Maybe I’ll explain my hiatus. (I like how I use the word “maybe” while I have full intention of following that train of thought. Did you fall for it? Sorry again!) There’s really no explanation other than the fact that I feel like blogging is so competitive nowadays. Sigh. I’m a very competitive person, and if I’m not going to win, it’s hard for me to play. Total bullshit attitude, right? What a poor sport I am sometimes. Seriously. I’m the blogging equivalent of the kid on the playground who takes his ball and goes home. Nobody likes that kid. Especially once you realize that you are that kid.

I’m not writing this for comments, or for endorsements, or to drive publicity to myself, like so many talented and deserving bloggers do (and as they should.) I don’t even have a point, for the love of pete. I’m doing it because if I don’t, these words in my head will eventually spew out on their own accord, pent-up like a geyser or a soda can shaken, and then I’ll have a lot of apologizing to do because there won’t be time to revise the draft, or spell-check, or sum up the diatribe with a clever little pun that refers back to the subject line.

A few weeks ago, I had an afternoon to myself and decided, on a whim, to wander through a thrift store. While browsing the book section, I grabbed a vintage copy of a cookbook I thought the Chef Hub would find interesting- James Beard’s Menus For Entertaining. I had no idea how lucky that find was… not for the kitchen, but for life.

Chris was flipping through it the other night and found an interesting recipe. Since I know many of you readers have kids angelic children that only sometimes need the slightest bit of discipline, I thought I would share the recipe with you, in case you ever need a little leverage.

I suggested to my own children that we might have this for dinner later, on a day that they were being particularly feisty. Although they all vetoed the dish in favor of Red Robin, their attitudes immediately improved and suddenly, miraculously, chores were completing themselves left and right with no mention by me. Weird.

Kid on a SpitAn unusual outdoor dinner for 12-15

A whole kid will weigh 12-15 pounds. Reserve the liver, heart, and kidneys. Rub the kid lightly with rosemary and garlic… While the kid is roasting, saute the liver, heart, and kidneys in butter… When the kid is done, it should still be juicy, with the faintest hint of pink… Serve with the brown sauce, which may be mixed with some of the drippings from the grill. Pass plenty of crisp rolls.

With all the parenting books on the market, I can’t believe that I actually got some valuable parenting advice from a cookbook… for LESS THAN A DOLLAR. And if any of you out there tell my children that a “kid” is actually a baby goat, I’m going to have to demand that, as punishment, you buy me an actual parenting book. Or go half-sies on the future therapy bill. Your silence is golden here… golden brown and served with a sauce made from the drippings.